


Dizzie Lizzie

by scumbaganarchy



Category: Absolutely Fabulous, Drop Dead Fred (1991), The New Statesman (TV 1987)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe, Childhood Memories, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Imaginary Friends, Role Reversal, fred is basically a dork, lizzie is here to be fabulous and "help", we'll see where we go with these as the plot progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumbaganarchy/pseuds/scumbaganarchy
Summary: Oh, look - a Role Reversal AU for Drop Dead Fred!When Frederick Cronin's life falls apart around him, his troubles seem to be multiplied by the sudden reappearance of his childhood Imaginary Friend, the one and only Dizzie Lizzie. She's a lot to handle and Fred isn't sure he's capable anymore. You know how this story goes (or do you?): it's Fred's turn to get the blame!
Relationships: Elizabeth "Lizzie" Cronin/Fred, Fred (Drop Dead Fred)/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. Prologue: What a pile of shit!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frankenbolt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenbolt/gifts), [zombierose3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombierose3/gifts).



> Hello! What's this? My first fic that isn't about The Young Ones? *dramatic gasp*
> 
> The inspiration for this comes from frankenbolt and zombierose3, who are both, like, the GO TO people for DDF fanfic. They have an AU where Lizzie becomes an imaginary friend (which you should definitely check out) and that is where this AU came from. Frankenbolt also drew some really cute art on Tumblr too, which I am in love with. https://frankenbolt.tumblr.com/post/622928245945483264/so-initially-the-idea-of-dizzie-lizzie-was
> 
> You'll have to forgive me for any questionable characterisation that may occur, I've not written much for these guys and they aren't the same Lizzie and Fred we're used to... as you'll soon see. But I do love them. Very much. What else should you know? I tagged this Mature because I'm not sure how deep into the angst pool this is going to go yet. Better safe than sorry, right?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

In a bedroom situated somewhere in Kensington in London, with all four walls plastered in aeroplane wallpaper, a young boy with the wildest red hair outside of Scotland was sat up in his bed. His not quite focused blue eyes were fixed eagerly on the tall figure in the doorway, hanging off her every word and gesture. It was late, far past his bedtime, but this young boy was a bit of a livewire and didn’t tire easily. Not yet, at least.

The figure in the doorway – a imposing yet slender woman with strawberry blonde hair piled high on her head and a tight-fitting dress clinching _all_ of her favourite places – was the young boy’s mother. A woman in her early thirties, decked out in whatever jewellery was in season at that particular hour. So were the privileges of the disgustingly rich and bored. In fact, the boy wouldn’t remember the specifics of her outfit that night. The only constant with his mother seemed to be her bright red lips and the endless supply of cigarettes and wine flutes that came into contact with them – such as now, as the swirling cloud of tobacco smoke could attest to.

“Frederick, darling, surely that must be enough. Go to sleep.” Her voice was awfully well to do, with a patronising air of superiority. “You know I have things to take care of, sweetie. Why do you have to be so selfish?”

The boy’s head turned to the right, as if his attention had been captured by a third party. He nodded at them, hair briefly whipped to life, and turned back to his mother.

“I’m not being selfish, mummy,” he told her in a posh sort of nasal squeak, wide eyed and innocent, “Lizzie says I’d sleep better with a story.”

An audible groan issued from the doorway.

“ _Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie_ – ugh! I’m sick of hearing about that _wench_!” she groaned, “You can’t go on playing games all your life you know, sweetie. Good little boys have to grow up and earn lots of money.”

The young boy frowned.

“Why’s that, mummy?” he asked.

She laughed. A bark of a sound.

“So that their wives can have lots of fun spending it, of course,” she replied, blowing a perfectly formed smoke ring up into the air and smiling to herself.

The boy began to smile too – he always preferred to see his mummy happy – but the non-existent third party quickly snatched his attention away again. A momentary look of shock came over his face and he glanced back over at his mother, as if seeing her anew. Apparently, she wasn’t so awe inspiring now.

“ _What a pile of shit!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's Fred's mother based on, you ask (well, maybe you didn't, but I'm answering anyway)? Darling, have you seen Absolutely Fabulous? You piece of filth...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. She Loves Me? She Loves Me Not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your first proper chapter! Hope you enjoy! :D

_~26 years later~_

Frederick Cronin was about to have a very bad day. To be fair, he had known it wasn’t going to be a stellar one when he woke up alone, cold and painfully aware of the gap next to him in the sheets. He still wasn’t used to that feeling. Hopefully, _if_ his day went well – which it wasn’t going to – he wouldn’t _have_ to get used to it. Beds as big as the one in their apartment needed two people to sleep in them, didn’t they? Not one lonely man and his thoughts. That was just common sense.

But today was going to get worse. Much worse. If Fred had thought that having a double bed all to himself was the height of his troubles, _oh boy_ , did he have another thing coming…

It was currently midday and the sun was shining. However, rather than enjoying the nice weather before he was inevitably compelled back to court, Fred was spending his lunch hour skulking around the local shopping centre’s premises in his car. Well, _skulking_ might have been the wrong word. Lurking perhaps? Not that that sounded _any_ better. He sighed to himself and checked his watch: 12:15. Right. He needed to make a move.

Glancing over for the thirteenth time at the entrance, he felt his heart drop and stomach twist uncomfortably. Dammit! Why couldn’t he just get up and go and look for her? They had been married for three years; it wasn’t as if he was a stalker!

“Oh, Sarah…”

Fred’s head dropped down on to the steering wheel and he let out a groan of despair. It had really come to _this_? How pathetic.

_BEEP!_

“Shit!” he exclaimed, jumping suddenly at the sound of the car’s horn. Could he not even sit in his own car without making a mess of things?

Cringing slightly, Fred surveyed the surrounding street and found an elderly woman peering over at him suspiciously. God, he had to be more careful. He waved over at her awkwardly and smiled in a rather jittery manner.

“Sorry, I- I must have dozed off,” he mumbled pointlessly – she _was_ halfway down the street and it wasn’t like he had screamed his excuse at her.

Wait, should he do that? Just to be sure she knew he wasn’t the kind of creep who hung outside shopping centres, waiting around for women who were _vastly_ out of his league? No, no, that was stupid. The old woman wouldn’t like that. He needed to focus.

 _Sarah_. Even the thought of her name had Fred patting the few unruly strands of red hair he could see from the corner of his eye back into place. Honestly, it was hard enough making himself look presentable in front of a _full-length mirror_ – he couldn’t afford to mess up his appearance now, in broad daylight! Fred carefully took his glasses off. It would only be the fourth time this car journey.

“Sarah,” he tried again, wiping the thick lenses with his green tie and attempting to focus on its pattern. “Sarah, this is really important to me. I- I forgive you.”

He stopped wiping the lenses and put the glasses back on, staring determined into the rear-view mirror.

“I love you. I _really_ do. I love you and I’m sorry that I’ve not been… enough…” He sighed, scratching his neck. This was no good; even _he_ could see the hurt in his eyes. He didn’t want to come across like some soppy puppy in desperate need of affection. What kind of husband behaved like that? He shook his head.

“Stop it, you big girl,” he chastised himself.

It was now 12:23. Fred’s heartbeat spiked in mild panic. _Alright, alright_. Finally, he unlocked the car and got out.

“Sarah, our marriage…” he muttered to himself as he walked towards the shopping centre, keeping his eyes on the cracked pavement below and his brow furrowed, “No, this is really importa- _we_ are really import- Sarah, this is really-”

“Yes?”

Fred looked up and had to stop himself from gasping in shock. Quite by accident, he had already entered the shopping centre and bumped straight into the woman! Why did this always happen? Why did she have the power to rob him of the ability to speak like a normal human being without so much as batting an eyelid? It wasn’t _fair_ … though, of course, it wasn’t Sarah’s fault. She couldn’t help being so disarmingly beautiful and wonderous that every time Fred saw her he felt like some puny, lesser mortal. She eyed him expectantly and Fred was hit with the realisation that she wanted some sort of response from him.

“Sarah!” he offered, as if he was truly surprised to see her and hadn’t been badly planning this moment since he woke up. Fred twitched. Now, if only he could keep his eyes from bulging and be sure that the smile that had now plastered itself across his face wasn’t _too_ startling.

Sarah appeared to roll her eyes at him, although that could have been a trick of the light. It was a sunny day, after all.

“Darling, what are you doing here?” she asked in that posh drawl a childhood of elocution lessons had perfected. Fred pretended not to hear the disappointment laced within in.

“I- I’m-” he began.

“I thought you had work today; shouldn’t you be having lunch at this hour?” she cut him off, with one manicured eyebrow arched up, scrutinising his soul. Oh no. He was losing the thread of the conversation already. He only hoped his forehead hadn’t started glistening yet.

“This is more important, Sarah. I had to come and find you-”

“It couldn’t wait until I was finished shopping, Fred? I do have an _entire_ _new_ household to buy for, darling,” she reminded him, idly flashing her several bags of distinctly non-essential household items at him. Since when were fur coats a _must have_ when you moved out? And was that the _Harrods_ logo on another bag!?

No, no, he shouldn’t question that.

“Let me finish. _Please_ ,” he asked.

He knew he didn’t sound authoritative in the least. If anything, it was as if he was asking her permission simply to talk to her. Deep in the recesses of his mind, Fred knew this wasn’t _right_ ; this wasn’t how married life was _supposed_ to be. Though, he had only himself to blame for that, didn’t he? Sarah let out an impatient sigh and looked towards the exit.

“But you agreed, Fred. Don’t you remember? This-” she gestured again to her bags, “-was your idea, darling. One of the only good ideas you’ve had since our wedding night, I might add. We can’t go on like this. I can’t play housewife to a husband who’s hardly around to see me, to pay attention to me, to _please_ me.”

The suggestive look in her eyes as she finished had Fred smoothing his hair again and laughing uneasily, as if her lack of satisfaction with him in the bedroom was quite hilarious and not _utterly_ humiliating. She smirked at the blush that had crept into his cheeks and licked her lower lip teasingly – but just subtly enough to have Fred doubting whether it was intentional or whether he was simply a colossal pervert.

“Sarah-”

“And you’ve helped us both, my darling,” she carried on, her eyes now fully set on the glass doors behind him, “Now we can both do something positive with our lives, without all this… _unpleasantness_ … weighing us down.”

“I did? I mean, this was my idea?” Fred questioned, desperately confused.

“ _Of course_ it was.”

“Wait…. _when_? I- I really don’t remember that-”

“But you _must_ , darling,” she countered him. The frustration in her tone was seeping through now. “The best thing for me is to go and live with Alan. Those were _your_ words when you forced me out of the apartment.”

Alan? Oh god, _Alan_? He had a name – the man? The man she had cheated on him with? Well, of course he bloody did! Everyone had a name! Wait… did she just say _forced_? Had he hurt her? Fred didn’t recall that. Didn’t recall him ever ordering her to go, actually; in his memory she had left off her own accord whilst Fred had begged her to stay. Cripes, what if he _had_ forced her out!? No wonder she was running away with Alan!

Before Fred realised it, Sarah was heading for the exit, shopping bags swaying in time with her blonde hair. He was losing his chance.

“No! No, Sarah, wait!” he called after her, a tad louder than he had intended.

A few of the surrounding shoppers’ gazes briefly flitted to Fred thanks to his outburst. He grimaced at them and swallowed, internally debating if he owed them an explanation or not. Wait – Sarah would be gone soon! Without a word, Fred darted off towards the exit too, eventually catching up with his wife on the pavement outside.

“Alan? Is that his name?” he asked her. There was absolutely no hiding his pain now. Unfortunately, if he had been hoping to garner her sympathy then he hadn’t succeeded. That was blatantly obvious by his view of the back of her head rather than her face.

“Yes,” Sarah confirmed, voice in neutral.

“Oh… I didn’t know that…” Fred trailed off, fighting the impulse to pat at his hair again. “All I know is what you did with him on our sofa…”

That was something he _really_ wished he didn’t know….

Sarah turned to face him with an almost pout on her lips, whatever expensive lipstick she was wearing today glimmering in the natural light.

“Oh, Fred, I couldn’t help myself! I’ve been _ensnared_ by Alan, darling, I didn’t mean to be!” she revealed, sounding sad enough for Fred to feel encouraged to believe her. He nodded and took a step towards her.

“Y-yes, I understand-”

She took a carefully timed step backwards.

“Just _intoxicated_ by his _masculine_ , _assertive_ , _dominant_ ways. He’s so _witty_ , darling. You ought to speak to him, you might pick up on it.”

Fred blushed at the thinly veiled insult and smiled tightly. Was she even- no, she had taken her wedding ring off. Suddenly, Fred felt silly wearing his – like he was overdressed. Oh god, his heart was hurting _again_ …

“But, Sarah-” he whined.

“Hush now, Frederick,” she cooed, pressing a finger to Fred’s lips and causing him to freeze up at the unexpected physical contact. “Let’s not go through all those hateful words now, shall we? I’m sure we’ll want to see each other at some point down the line. For two years, it did feel like a long time to be with someone.” She withdrew from him and took something from her pocket – a small, rectangular object – and slipped it between his still lips, smiling when Fred offered no resistance.

And then she was gone, trotting off down the road with her horde of bags and Fred’s bleeding heart to boot. What a bargain. Perhaps Alan was waiting for her in some fantastically overpriced car with gifts and romance beyond anybody’s wildest dreams. Fred watched her go and didn’t try to chase after her; tried to observe her figure as if she meant nothing to him, despite reality taunting him with the opposite. When she was nearly far enough away that it was hopeless to even consider a change of plan, Fred let himself move and removed the object from his mouth.

“It was three years,” he said softly. Not that it mattered.

He looked down at whatever she had stuffed into his mouth – it was his credit card. The sun was still shining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know DDF is set 21 years later but I figured I'd say 26 for this fic, purely because Rik was five years older than Phoebe and I wanted ickle Fred to have an imaginary friend around the same age ickle Lizzie did. All going well, another chapter won't be too far away as I'm having lots of fun with this!
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed so far! ;D
> 
> *This chapter is now available in the thirteenth issue of the TYO fanzine 'Scumbag Monthly'.*


	3. Grown Up Things, Sweetie, Grown Up Things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! An update! I would love to knock these out weekly but we'll see how we go as I have a few unfinished TYO fics that I really should tackle. XD As I said before, apologies for questionable characterisation. We have a couple more character introductions here before things start to really kick off in the next chapter. I hope you enjoy Fred being a hopeless fool. :D

Over half of Fred’s lunch break had ticked on by when he finally found an empty phone box to use. Looking back in retrospect, he would berate himself for deliberately searching one out in a quieter part of town and not one closer to work. If only he had been a little surer that he wasn’t about to have an embarrassing public breakdown and therefore require the privacy of a quiet street, his day might have ended _slightly_ less terribly. Had he even really _needed_ to make a call then and there, in the first place? Couldn’t he have been less delicate and waited until the end of the day? It wasn’t that Fred _hadn’t_ considered that he was being overdramatic and shouldn’t trouble his one and only friend with the mess his personal life was fast becoming. He supposed he just wasn’t strong enough to cope with it on his own like a properly functioning adult man; he needed some kind of outlet.

“God, I hope she’s not busy eating and letting her hair down like a normal person,” he muttered bitterly to himself as he fumbled around in his wallet for some loose change.

It was anyone’s guess how much Sarah had spent on Fred’s credit card. He didn’t really _want_ to think about it – not now, not when he could put off that problem until later – and so, feeling oddly sick, he stuffed the plastic piece of financial ruin into his wallet and got out of the car, chucking it on to the driver’s seat. Of course, this meant it was now clearly in view for anyone nosy enough to check. That was, perhaps, Fred’s second largest mistake of the day. His largest mistake had been actually getting out of bed and leaving the apartment.

To be fair, the street was quiet, he was in a bit of a panic; Fred’s mind wasn’t _exactly_ focused on security as he stumbled over to the phone box. Not that he had any excuse for being such a dimwit. God, he _barely_ even managed to fit the coins into the slot for shaking and the loss of feeling in his fingers! It was no wonder he didn’t register the perfect stranger approaching his car.

His car that, upon Sarah’s insistence that he keep up to date with industry, had only been purchased a couple of months ago and as such was still notably fresh and fancy looking. The key was still in the ignition.

“Please pick up, Janie… Please pick up- oh, thank _goodness_ …” The relief in Fred’s voice once he discovered that his friend was free to talk and had been reassured that she was interested in what he had to say was painfully palpable. “Janie, she said- she wants- I just. No, really, I did but-” He couldn’t form a coherent sentence, let alone articulate at length what had just happened.

“Fred, Fred, hold on,” Janie stopped him, concern evident through the line, “This is about Sarah, right? Talk slowly, Fred. What’s she done now?”

And so Fred explained, as calmly and concisely as he could. He would have been ashamed that his voice wobbled slightly every now and then if he hadn’t been talking to _Janie_ , of all people – the one person who didn’t seem to mind how soppy or emotional Fred got. How _girly_ he could be. Where did tolerance like that even _come_ from?

“-so that’s what she wants, Janie. She wants to move out and live with-” Fred’s face crinkled with instinctive disgust, “- _Alan_. I mean, have you heard of a more toe-curlingly putrid name than _Alan_? How could she leave me for an _Alan_?” he moaned.

The truth of the matter was starting to really sink in now: Fred had failed at marriage. He had failed at being a husband.

“Hun, I know it seems pretty bad right now-”

“Because it is.”

“-but you’ve got to remember the positives. You’ve still got your apartment – most guys in your situation are the ones doing the walking out – so there’s a lot less hassle for you there.”

Fred scratched his neck and sighed. Trust him to fail at being the _man_ in the relationship too.

“I know… but I don’t _want_ our apartment to myself. For one thing, Sarah picked all the decorations – I’m not going to be able to do _anything_ without being reminded of her!” he lamented, “Oh, Janie, I just really want her back. This is _serious_. If I could just get her alone somewhere nicer than a bloody shopping centre-”

_BEEP BEEP BEEP._

“Janie? Damn! Stupid thing.” He rummaged around his pockets for some spare coins but found none. “Ugh, typical. Janie? Hold on a second… just got to get some more change…”

Fred left the phone hanging on its chord and turned out back into the street just in time to see the perfect stranger he had missed earlier speed off right in front of him, leaving skid marks on the tarmac. This would have been enough to make Fred jump on its own but the added bonus that the vehicle now hurtling away from him was _his_ car jolted him further. By the glint of the sun on the driver’s window, it had been rather hastily broken into, as well. This was outrageous! Fred stared after it, aghast with horror, before his anger kicked in and he took off in futile pursuit.

“ _You BASTARD!_ _That’s my car!_ ” he hollered, cursing the fact that there were absolutely no witnesses to this act of theft.

Back in the phone box, Janie called out to Fred, who by now wouldn’t have been able to hear her even if he strained his ears. She didn’t want him spending anymore money on that Sarah; she hadn’t ever _met_ the woman but the stories Fred told were enough to put her off, even if the poor sod himself was too blinded by her charm to understand why.

Down the road and already panting from the effort of taking off after the car thief, Fred stopped his chase and bent over to rest his hands on his knees.

“Bugger…” he wheezed out, mopping his brow.

Well, he supposed he would have to walk back to work now. Wait. _Shit_. Work. What time was it? Fred hastily checked his watch and felt newly formed sweat freeze along his back in pure terror: his lunch break ended in _four minutes_!

“Oh, _god_!” he squeaked.

_***_

Sometime later – _considerably_ later than four minutes – the now absolute mess of a red head knocked down the doors of the courtroom he was _meant_ to be working in and tripped over on to the carpet in front of them. As his lips got friendly with the dust molecules, Fred had to resist the urge to curl into himself and die and instead willed himself to stand up and brush off his now dusty and sweat ridden clothes. Running across London in the afternoon sun was _not_ advisable, he had learned. Everyone was staring at him – even the defendant! As if courtrooms weren’t imposing enough as they were…

Smiling awkwardly and laughing in that horribly smarmy way he seemed to have mastered by accident, Fred turned to the less than pleased judge.

“I am so, so, so, so, _so_ sorry, Your Honour,” he told him as he ambled towards his typewriter, “I- I lost my _money_ , my _car_ … my _wife_ …” _Ouch_.

Someone started sniggering and Fred had to tell himself that it wasn’t the defendant. No, it _couldn’t b_ e the _defendant_ _laughing_ at _him_!

“All in one lunch hour?” the judge inquired, eyeing him up suspiciously. He didn’t look as though he cared much for Fred’s plight, which made sense when Fred spotted the clock and realised just how late he was.

He sat down and bowed his head in embarrassment.

“Sorry, Your Honour...”

“May we finally proceed?” the defence council asked, nudging the defendant in the ribs to get him to stop giggling like a schoolboy.

“Just a moment,” the judge replied, “Could the court reporter approach the bench, please?”

 _Oh dear_ , this wasn’t great. That tone wasn’t friendly. Fred stood up again and stepped forwards, patting his messed-up hair anxiously and smiling as if he was about to be shot.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered earnestly. It really wasn’t like Fred to be late.

“So am I. You’re fired.”

Fred almost choked.

“ _Wh-what!?_ ”

***

To say Fred was sulking when the lift he was in opened on the ground floor to let him and his box of belongings out into the bustling entranceway for all to see that _yes, this was a man who no longer worked here_ would have been like saying the Pope had only a slight interest in Catholicism. Today had been terrible, the worst day Fred felt he had had for a while. Though, perhaps not quite as bad as the day he had found a used condom hiding between the cracks of his and Sarah’s sofa when he knew for a fact it wasn’t his…

The memory was so raw and soul crushing that it distracted Fred completely from what was right in front of him – a briefcase. If he had been paying attention, he would have noticed the woman in her late twenties with frizzy brown hair and glasses placing it down for a moment as she surveyed her surroundings. However, for the second time that hour Fred found himself tumbling to the floor instead.

“ _Argh!_ ”

Two jumper-clad arms shot out to help steady him but it was no use; a second later both Fred and the woman with the briefcase were on the ground and, once again, Fred had the attention of the entire vicinity when he _really_ wished he hadn’t.

“Oh god, I’m sorry! I didn’t think it would trip anybody up, I only put it down for a moment!” the woman apologised in an accent not a million miles away from Fred’s own. She was blushing faintly and already gathering up the array of spilled items from Fred’s box.

“Th-thank you,” he told her, even though she was the reason this had all happened.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

Fred smiled tightly and scratched his neck. It wouldn’t do to let her tidy everything up on her own, what was he thinking? He grabbed at the nearest sheets of paper, crinkling them in the process, before depositing them back into his pathetic little box.

“Mhm hmm…” He hoped this interaction was nearly over.

The woman nodded at him and they both stood up. Right. That was it then, wasn’t it? Goodbye. Fred went to leave when he noticed her staring at him rather strangely, in the same manner a doctor might examine a patient with a mysterious illness. His self-consciousness spiked by default and he swallowed edgily.

“What? Is there something wrong with my face?”

She shook her head quickly.

“No, no, that’s not it. This is probably going to sound very odd but… you wouldn’t happen to be called Frederick Stone, would you?”

Fred tensed up at the mention of his mother’s unmarried name.

“No,” he responded stiffly, “Cronin… is my _last name_ , I mean. My first name _is_ Frederick, though. Well, Fred. Frederick’s the full version but I prefer-” He stopped himself with a grimace. “I’m Fred. My _mother’s_ name is Stone.”

Clearly, this woman knew of him somehow. Would now be a good moment to make a bolt for it? Those familiar with his mother usually weren’t too forgiving with her son.

“Oh!”

An unexpected reaction – she appeared… happy? Surprised? Terrified?

“Oh? I’m sorry, have we met before?” Fred asked, frowning at the lack of bells ringing in his head to signify who she was.

“I’m _Saffron_ ,” the woman revealed to him as if this was a monumental announcement.

Fred could only shrug at her apologetically.

“You’re an Indian spice?”

“Saffy. Saffron Monsoon,” she went on determinedly, “Our mothers used to be… well, I’d say _friends_ but I wouldn’t call drink, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll the foundations of a _brilliant_ friendship.” There was a bitterness in her voice, it struck a chord with Fred.

Now, where was the name Monsoon from? It did sound vaguely familiar now that he thought about it… oh!

Fred’s eyes bulged and he almost let the box fall again. God, his mother hadn’t seen _her_ for _years_! Fred must have been only seven or eight when _that_ party fizzled out. Though, to hear his mother talk of it, you would have been forgiven for assuming the last time she had seen her old friend had been just last week. If Fred had been so young when the big split had happened, Saffy here must have only been what, three? Four? She had started smiling at the indication that Fred had finally realised who she was.

“You were Aunty Eddie’s baby!” he exclaimed in shock.

She nodded, laughing at his phrasing.

“Yes, that was me. I thought for a moment there I’d made a mistake – I mean, there must be more than one ginger Fred in London-” she gestured to the name on his box, “-but it _is_ you. Gosh… mum’s _always_ telling stories about Patsy Stone – I’m sure it can’t _all_ be true – she’s basically an urban myth in our family.”

Fred chuckled nervously and readjusted his hold on the box.

“Sounds like quite the fitting title for my mother… do you work here?” he sidestepped.

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Me neither,” Fred sighed.

“My mum just had a couple of divorces here,” she explained.

“A _couple_?” Fred asked before he could help himself, “Sorry, that was rude of me-” Fortunately, Saffy didn’t look at all offended. “Divorces, eh? I don’t like that word. You’ve got to… you’ve got to work things through if you don’t want to get d-divorced.”

“For most couples, yeah, of course,” she agreed, thankfully not commenting on his telling stutter, “But my mother’s a bit of a special case.”

There it was again: that chiming chord! Fred hadn’t realised smiles that didn’t meet people’s eyes could be so powerful. This was extraordinarily strange.

“Really? Mine too,” he admitted.

No. That was wrong, wasn’t it? How could he _say that_ about his own mother!? Fred’s knees buckled momentarily and he forced a laugh whilst he steadied himself.

“Just joshing, aha! She’s lovely, really, a very… _independent_ woman,” he said. Phrasing was important.

“Well, from the way mum talks about her, I’m surprised she’s not shipped you off to some place far away years ago,” Saffy told him, either bordering on rudely blunt or with a gift for deadpan humour.

For once in his life, Fred knew how to respond.

“It wasn’t for want of trying! _Royal Mail_ wouldn’t take me; said I’d have put a postman’s back out.”

They both laughed uneasily. Vitally, however, was the fact that Fred was pretty certain Saffy didn’t think that had actually happened. God, all he needed today was to have his childhood dragged under the microscope for inspection…

The two of them began to drift naturally towards the exit, box and briefcase in tow.

“I think I have very faint memories of you, Fred. Mum gives off the impression that you were a lot to handle,” Saffy chuckled, “Although, coming from her that could mean you simply existed and therefore interrupted their shopping trips.”

The way this woman spoke about her own mother – the way her respect for her didn’t seem to be a given. The bitterness; almost contempt. In some ways, it was a tad like looking into a mirror. But then, Fred had no idea what Saffy’s life was like and whether it compared at all to his own. Hers was probably worse. Maybe Aunty Eddie had gone off the deep end without his mother… but did he honestly believe it would have been _that_ way round?

He frowned in thought.

“Me? A lot to handle?”

From memory, Fred had been an especially meek and quiet boy. _A lot to handle_ sounded more like the boys at school who had flicked all sorts across classrooms and smoked in the toilets. Nevertheless, Saffy nodded.

“Yeah. Don’t you remember what you did to my mother?” she asked, looking thoroughly amused.

“I didn’t do anything to her,” Fred denied. Really, he had barely even _spoken_ to Aunty Eddie.

“She said you claimed that then too. You said Lizzie did it.”

 _Lizzie_.

Oh. Oh _bloody hell._ He hadn’t thought about her since… forever. Lizzie. Yes, his _best friend_ Lizzie. If Fred concentrated hard enough, he could just see her face: all smiles and laughter, dark brown eyes framed by dark brown hair, those very purple lips… how could he have forgotten her? It felt insulting.

Fred’s stomach was performing little leaps at the half memory. Strange, nostalgia wasn’t usually this strong. Just what _had_ Lizzie done to Aunty Eddie? Something with a bucket of champagne? Something that had resulted in lots of weeping and wailing because what _exactly_ were she and his mother supposed to drink now?

“Oh, Aunty Eddie!”

“Aunty Eddie’s very busy, darling, what is-”

That was it! Fred could see it – Lizzie, giggling the entire time, swinging the largest bucket his younger self had seen towards Aunty Eddie, covering her from head to toe in the Monsoon house’s supply of alcohol. And that had been _a lot_. If he remembered correctly, Lizzie hadn’t let Fred near the thing before the big act as she hadn’t wanted him to get in trouble.

“ _FREDERICK!_ ”

Suffice to say, that hadn’t worked. Fred still winced whenever his mother raised her voice at him.

“Dizzie Lizzie…” he mumbled.

How could anyone forget about Dizzie Lizzie?

“She was your imaginary friend, wasn’t she?” Saffy asked, suddenly sounding softer.

They were stood on the pavement outside now, reaping the benefits of the shade created by the large building behind them. Fred blushed at the reminder that Lizzie hadn’t been real, despite the vividness of his recollection of her. _He_ had been the one to douse Saffy’s mother in champagne. He must have been.

“Yes, she was. I’m sorry, you must have grown up thinking I was some sort of horrid, crazy, _monster_ child,” he joked, admittedly somewhat subdued.

“Not at all – sometimes I wished I had your nerve, actually,” Saffy countered, which made Fred’s eyebrow raise in surprise. Him? Nerve? “I had imaginary friends too growing up but they weren’t… well, they weren’t as _real_ as mum makes Lizzie sound.”

Fred sighed. He watched a stray leaf twirl to the ground and promptly get smushed by a pedestrian’s foot.

“She did seem very real at the time. She always stood up for me against-” He stopped.

“I get it. I do,” Saffy assured him.

The seriousness in her face; the look of someone who had grown up a little too quickly. This understanding, downtrodden vibe. Hmm. Perhaps Fred would have to stay in touch with Saffron Monsoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh Saffy! I'm going to have to binge some Ab Fab to work on her characterisation but there she is! I've kinda fallen in love with the idea of her and this version of Fred being friends and bonding over their less than stellar childhoods. Poor sods. I've had to age her up a bit to make a friendship with Fred more realistic... but then people always did mistake Saffy for older.
> 
> Lizzie will be in the next chapter properly, I promise! Thank you for reading and I hope you've enjoyed! ;)


	4. Be A Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I was finishing up other fics and then life went a bit wahey, as it does sometimes!
> 
> I know I said Lizzie would be in this one but it turns out she isn't... cheeky sod... so I hope Fred, Janie and Patsy can tide you over for now. The next chapter should be out soon and I promise you that Lizzie's in that! She would have been in this one, only I got invested in Janie and Fred being cute. ;D

“I realise you’re feeling pretty conflicted right now,” Janie remarked to Fred some forty-five minutes later.

For his part, Fred was very grateful that she had happened to spot him walking alone once he and Saffy had parted ways. It would have been a long walk home without his card or any money for the tube or even a bus and God knew that Fred had already looked a right state, as Janie had confirmed when she pulled up next to him and wound down the window of her car.

Ah yes. _Cars_. Those things that _proper_ adults possessed.

Since getting in and allowing himself to wallow without having to look where he was going, Fred had made sure to showcase his gratitude by thanking Janie about half a dozen times for the lift across London – he felt ghastly about wasting her petrol like this. Still, she was _Janie_ and she really didn’t seem to mind… though this hadn’t stopped Fred from insisting on putting his box of belongings on his lap for the ride, rather than taking up Janie’s offer of putting it in the boot. Or, as she called it, the _trunk_. Fred didn’t want to make more clutter than was necessary.

He sighed, hugging the box like it would provide any solace against this terribly bad day.

“I feel _awful_ ,” Fred replied miserably to her, making sure to drag out the last word for all it was worth.

Not missing a beat, Janie went on.

“I did this self-actualising workshop-” she told him, causing Fred to raise a cynical eyebrow. “-and they taught us that pain is your friend. Pain makes you interesting.”

He sighed.

“Janie-”

“Look at Elvis!” she insisted.

A confused frown crinkled Fred’s features.

“But… but didn’t he kill himself?”

“Yes, but before that he was _very_ interesting.”

She turned down Fred’s street – well, Fred _and Sarah’s_ street, really. Wasn’t it? Maybe? _Hopefully_? The red head sighed and let his face flop down on to the box, completely missing the concerned look Janie gave him as they drew closer to the one place Fred _really_ didn’t want to be anymore. She cleared her throat.

“I want you to do some affirmations with me-”

“ _Janie!_ ” a muffled whine complained.

“Just do it,” she instructed him, pulling up on to the pavement, “Surround yourself with light… are you surrounded, Fred?”

Fred pulled his head back up and gave her a tired stare.

“I think so – the streetlamp over there’s started flickering-”

“Repeat after me,” Janie cut over him. There was a vaguely amused twinkle in her dark eyes at what some might have called the childish stubbornness of her friend. Nevertheless, she had learnt that the best way to get through to Fred was to try and prevent his habitual side tracking tactics wherever possible.

“I don’t need a woman to complete my life,” she said.

Fred pulled a face and she sighed.

“Look, it _was_ a mostly women’s class but I don’t see why men can’t fall into the same unhealthy thought pattern too,” Janie explained, raising her eyebrows for good measure, “So, come on – _I don’t need a woman to complete my life_.”

“Yes, yes, alright – _I don’t need a woman to complete my life_ ,” Fred repeated in the least convincing tone of voice possible, letting his eyes roll to the heavens.

“I’m perfect the way that I am.”

“I’m- god, this stuff is cheesy! Do you really want me to say _that_!?”

“Yes!” Janie laughed.

“ _Ughhhh_ … fine… I’m perfect _just_ the way that I am,” Fred grumbled.

She pursed her lips.

“I hate Sarah.”

And she did, not that Fred needed to hear her ever growing list as to _why_ at that particular moment. Indeed, at the mere phrase his eyes were bulging in shock.

“I- _what!?_ No, I don’t! I _love_ her!” he protested rather squeakily.

“Say it, Fred,” Janie insisted, face serious.

“I…”

“Go on…”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I hate Sarah…” he finally mumbled.

He had his arms crossed and a sulk on his face, as if he was five and someone had gotten him to confess where his secret stash of sweets was hidden. Although, that said, Janie did get the impression that Fred probably never _had_ a secret stash of sweets. He was such a ball of worry, wasn’t he? She wished she could just attribute this to his Britishness but… well… there was that _other_ reason…

“Do you feel better?” she asked, already predicting his answer.

Fred shook his head.

“No… I love her, I _really_ do!” he stressed miserably.

The earnest nature of his voice was quite painful to behold – if only there was a straightforward way to wake the guy up so he could smell the coffee. Janie gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Hun, what were you thinking of doing tonight?” she inquired. Fred frowned in thought.

“Nothing much, I suppose,” he sighed, “Apart from ringing the bank… a-and checking the job section in the papers- oh! And ringing the car people! Damn, do you think I should have gone to the police about that earlier?” He _already_ looked and sounded _far_ too anxious.

“Calm down,” Janie reminded him.

“Sorry…” Fred responded sheepishly.

“There’s no need to apologise – you’ve had a hell of a day. You need to relax.”

Another sigh.

“And how would you suggest I do _that_?”

She shrugged.

“Well, you’ve got the place to yourself… we could watch a movie?”

***

For a few minutes – as he and Janie walked from her car up to his apartment – Fred _almost_ convinced himself that the rest of the night would be okay. Janie didn’t have work tomorrow, she told him, he _certainly_ didn’t have work tomorrow; watching a movie instead of endlessly deliberating whether it was wise to use the landline to sort out the day’s mess when there was a _possibility_ Sarah could try and call seemed appealing. Maybe Sarah would even return when they were halfway through, having changed her mind about this _Alan_ character. That would be fantastic.

Still, this didn’t make Janie’s outlook on the situation any less confusing.

“I feel basically it’s all about choice,” she was saying as Fred put his housekey in the lock, precariously balancing his box on one knee. “Since you’ve already chosen, what you may as well do is to _choose_ what you _chose_.”

“Janie.” He stopped her with a slight chuckle as he unlocked and opened the door. “I think you’re brilliant, you know I do, but you really do talk a load of-”

“ _I heard._ ”

 _Shiiiiiiit_.

There was already a woman in the apartment and it _wasn’t_ Sarah. That much became clear when he spotted the perfect rings of smoke drifting upwards.

Patsy Stone still cut an imposing yet slender figure in her mid-to-late fifties – or _forties_ , if you asked her or Fred, who knew how old she was really but didn’t think pointing it out was worth the hassle. Her lips were still as red as ever and home to a cigarette, her fashion sense rather eye catching. The hair was still piled high and suspiciously strawberry blond with the only change being a stark stripe of bleach cutting through at the front, like lightning. People may have found it eerie how this woman appeared to have less wrinkles than the two, considerably younger adults stood in the doorway.

She just called it Botox. Nothing wrong with that.

Upon catching the reproachful eyes of his mother, Fred instantaneously felt himself shrinking in. It was only by some severe force of willpower – and the sudden clenching and whitening of his knuckles – that he was able to keep his box from tipping to the floor as he reached up to pat at his messy hair. He shuffled awkwardly into the apartment, Janie in tow, and shut the door. His heart thudded. If _she_ was here then everything must actually have been even _worse_ than Fred had realised.

“H-hello, mother,” he stammered, grimacing.

“I came as soon as I heard,” she quickly announced, all business-like and apparently ignorant to Janie’s presence, “It’s a good thing I’ve got a key to this depressing place, darling, or I could have been stuck in that corridor for _hours_. I don’t know how you can live here with that lift – it distorts the face beyond recognition.”

Fred found himself nodding in agreement and scratching at his neck.

“Yes, well, I-”

“Hello, Mrs Cronin!” Janie interrupted cheerfully, too cheerfully. Fred was _sure_ she knew that Cronin wasn’t her name…

His mother sniffed in acknowledgement of her son’s only friend.

“It’s _Stone_ actually, June, sweetie,” she prompted icily.

Fred cringed.

“He’ll be alright,” Janie told her, still smiling a little too much. Fred wasn’t sure whether this was a good or bad thing. “He just needs some nurturing. You know, give him a cuddle.”

At this, Fred almost choked and had to put the box down on the kitchen table. What the _bloody hell_ did Janie think she was playing at!? He knew the two of them had only met fleetingly in the past but one didn’t need to meet _Patsy Stone_ to know that _cuddling_ was not a word in her dictionary! And why would it be!? As expected, his mother was already looking faintly disturbed, as though she had just caught a whiff of dog shit.

A quick bark of a laugh broke the awkward pause.

“I’m sure Frederick must be a big enough boy by now to know when blubbing’s unnecessary, June,” she quipped, turning to her son without actually looking at him. “Letter for you, sweetie.”

Fred grasped at the official looking envelope with trembling hands and just about managed to open it and read the first few lines before letting out an embarrassing, little yelp.

“Fragile ear drums, sweetie, remember? _Fragile_!” his mother complained.

“S-sorry,” Fred apologised, barely sucking in breath at the _horror_ written down in front of him.

“What is it?” Janie asked in concern.

He jabbed the figure on the page with his index finger and thrust it into Janie’s face.

“ _It’s my credit card bill!_ ” he wailed. She peered at it and her eyes widened in shock.

“Dear _god_!”

It was… _a lot_ didn’t really cover it. Fred didn’t think he had seen so many zeroes on a letter addressed to him before! This was terrible; awful; horrifying!

“I can’t pay off _this_!” he moaned, “I don’t even have a steady flow of income anymore, never mind _savings_ that could cover _this much_!”

Christ, why on _earth_ had he let himself think today was going to get _any_ better!? He had basically brought this on himself by being so foolishly optimistic! Now Janie was looking even more sorry for him and all he was doing in response was whimpering like some pathetic animal!

Unexpectedly, his mother glanced over at the damning letter with the mildest of mild interest. She tutted.

“Maybe you have taken after me in something after all, sweetie,” she admitted reluctantly.

 _What_!? Oh no, no no! Fred shook his head quickly, which turned out not to be such a good idea when you could hear the blood pumping in your ears.

“This wasn’t _me_! This was _Sarah_!” he exclaimed, quite forgetting himself, “Oh _god_! Sarah!” And there was that nasty feeling in his chest again.

A flicker of purpose crossed his mother’s indifferent face.

“That reminds me, Frederick…” she said, hauling up a disgustingly frilly suitcase from behind the kitchen table, “I’ve packed your things; you’re coming home with me.”

Fred blinked.

“Wh-what?”

“I suppose it was inevitable that this would happen in the end, darling, I told you she’d want more than you could give her.” She sighed despondently, stubbing her cigarette out on the tabletop.

Unnoticed by the mother and son, Janie was quietly fuming.

“Wh- but what if she comes back tonight? And, besides, Janie and I-” Fred started.

“Don’t argue with your mother, sweetie. I don’t know how you could even _contemplate_ staying here and leaving the poor girl to fend for herself!” she scolded him.

“Sarah?” Fred clarified, not seeing how the woman he knew and _poor girl_ went together. This was all extremely confusing.

“Yes, Frederick – _Sarah_. You’ve got to let her have this place, sweetie, _you’ve got to_. You are the man in this relationship, aren’t you? It’s the man’s responsibility to move out when this happens,” she explained slowly, a slight bitterness creeping into her tone.

But Fred was in no place for something as _drastic_ as this; he knew, deep down, that going home with his mother might very well be the last thing he ever did.

“I’m staying here tonight!” he insisted, his adrenaline giving him an unusual sense of courage. He turned to Janie – who didn’t look so pleased with how things were turning out, for some reason – and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “ _I’m staying here tonight._ ”

***

However, to the surprise of exactly no one, Fred found himself in the back of one of the black cabs his mother paraded around London in so often, heading for Kensington. His box of belongings was still with him, as was the suitcase his mother had packed. How had this _happened_?

The cab driver probably wouldn’t have been able to tell that the two people in his vehicle were related – not just as they didn’t look massively similar, more because both of them were squished as far away from each other as possible. To be fair to Fred, this wasn’t so much his choice as it was a force of habit; he knew his mother liked her own space. Besides that, he would have struggled to move away from the window at all with both his box and suitcase piled next to and on top of him.

His mother was talking to him about… _something_. Fred was trying to listen but just _couldn’t_. It wasn’t unusual for him to drift off when she couldn’t see his face clearly enough to tell, though that didn’t exactly make Fred feel any better about it. For all he knew, his mother could have just confided in him that she was gravely ill and dying and needed him to be her live in carer.

Somehow – maybe it was the endless carousel of personal assistants – he did have to doubt this, though.

Anyway, it was hard for Fred to keep his mind focused on anything at all when he really did have _so much_ to sort out after today: debts, new jobs, stolen cars, new houses. Plus, how was Sarah supposed to know where to find him now that he had walked out on _their_ home? Wait, that was it! God, he could be thick sometimes! He should have left Sarah a note so she knew…

“Frederick!” his mother suddenly snapped, making him jump. She was stood on the pavement next to his door, which she had apparently just yanked open.

“Y-yes?” He glanced up at her through his glasses, wide-eyed.

“Stop daydreaming and get out of the taxi, we’re home!”

Fred grabbed his box and suitcase and scrambled out, mumbling a hurried apology to the driver. The roll of his mother’s eyes did make his heart sink a little – why couldn’t he do _anything_ right for her?

Night had settled in outside and it gave the house a less than welcoming exterior. Fred hadn’t been to see his mother here for a while; most usually their meetups were in cafes or pubs or restaurants… though, not the ones she frequented _obviously_. In many ways, Fred supposed as he lugged his belongings up the path in his mother’s wake, her wanting him around _had_ to be a good thing. Maybe she wanted to help him with his financial troubles or was planning to stage an intervention with Sarah? It didn’t sound like his mother but perhaps the drama of it all would force her hand.

“Mother-” he began.

“Oh, I should have said.” She dismissed his starter with a flick of the wrist. “I’ve had the carpet in the drawing room shampooed, sweetie. It was that woman – you know, the one with the hair and the face? Don’t go in there, Frederick, you’ll only make a mess.”

She opened the front door and stepped inside, the clack of her heels against the tiled floor reverberating around Fred’s skull. He hung his head momentarily, trying to get his willpower back.

“Yes, mother…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, Fred's bad day just drifted off into the hellzone...
> 
> Still, did you enjoy Janie's loathing of Patsy? I know she was more chilled out with Lizzie's mother buuuuut I couldn't help myself. I'm still kinda playing around with her characterisation - as well as basically the characterisation of all the DDF and Ab Fab characters. XD I think I've got a better hold on Fred because he's a Rik and I have some experience in writing for Rik's characters but, that said, Alan may be a different story when he appears.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed and it was worth the wait!


End file.
